Carter Ortese is Trouble - completed (The Boys #1)

Chapter 40: Emma

Static penetrates every part of my muddle mind, creating chaos inside my head. I try to focus on one concept, but every thought flutters in and out like a baby bird getting its first chance at flight. Carter, the pain, the red flashes of light behind my closed eyelids, my parents, and music. Lots of music. My brain replays songs over and over, and my fingers want to move along with the rhythm.

A song gets stuck in my head more than any other, and it's the catchy upbeat swing melody that Carter and I listened to when we just met, or really met for the first time. I don't count all the moments before then, when I thought he was someone else.

Though, I still thought he was someone else, until now. Everything has changed everything.

"You know, Emma, it'd be better if you stopped muttering to yourself."

I try to open my mouth to ask what the person means, but my lips are heavy and tongue bloated. My throat hurts, like someone ripped my tonsils out. Maybe they did. I'm not sure how long I've been out. I'm not sure what happened, and from the blackness of my heavy lids, I'm not sure I want to be back in this world.

"Don't talk anymore, is what I mean."

The voice settles into a numb part of my brain, and it takes me a while to search the fog and realize who is speaking. It's my mother. And she's still giving me orders when I'm here, wherever here is.

But where is here?

"You're at the hospital." She lets out a long breath, as if that were obvious.

I must be speaking out loud, but I don't feel like I am. I shake my head, and the movement makes my brain slosh back and forth in my skull. A wave of dizziness crashes over me, and I finally open my eyes. The lights blaze, and I squint. The room slowly comes into full focus. A small room, with lifeless but endless monitors chiming away in time, a picture window overlooking the giant parking lot, and I'm stuck on a bed half made of stuffing and the other half made of frozen peas.

My mom wears a sad smile, sheepishly watching me from a chair pulled up next to the bed. Her hand is wrapped around mine, though I'm not sure I can actually feel it. Her hair is pulled into a perfect bun, but wrinkles cover her clothes.

"What—" My throat burns when I try to speak.

"I'm going to talk, and you're going to listen. Okay?" She pats my forearm with her other hand and mutters, "Where to begin..."

The way she says it makes it sound like something finalized, something that will ruin the rest of my life. I'm in too much pain to hear whatever she has to say. My abdomen is on fire, there's something thick laying across my stomach, my arms are gelatin, and I'm pretty sure my brain has turned into dough.

"I'll start with today. You shouldn't talk much because they had to do an endoscopy to look at your stomach. So your throat probably hurts and will for a few days."

I try to swallow sticky saliva and wince.

"The other thing is you can't take ibuprofen anymore. Ever." She lets out a breath. "Emma, I wish you had told us about the headaches."

That last part makes me want to scream, but I don't have the energy. How can she ask that of me now?

"I know, I know. We haven't been the best. Your father and I had a long talk while we were waiting for you to wake up."

I glance around the room, but Henry Williams is no where to be seen.

"He and I are not seeing eye to eye with some things right now." She taps her foot on the ground, and the heel of her shoe makes a clicking noise that goes against the soulless melody of machines whirring around us.